


hope keeps us standing

by smithens



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Clothing Kink, Domestic Service Industry, During Canon, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Sex, Falling In Love, Family, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mutual Attraction, POV Richard Ellis, Slow Burn, Unrated for Eventual Sexual Content, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:20:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23266867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: In Richard's experience, every household was different, but Downton Abbey had something the rest of them didn't.Or perhaps someone.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 117
Kudos: 204





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [athens7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/athens7/gifts).



> title translated from [gabrielle shonk's "pars plus sans moi"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h17FU_-eFTA).
> 
> i realise i have five million WIPs right now but what's one more! 
> 
> some notes: this will have porn eventually, the chapters all have extremely different lengths.
> 
> also, i'm going to be posting the chapters for this both as they're written and in chunks, and because have people asked before -- i LOVE when i get comments on each individual chapter when i post multiple chapters at once! love that! generally love all comments in general even if i haven't had the energy to reply to them lately (see above), but i will never say no to more.

It wasn't until after Richard had taken off his shoes and jacket and laid himself down on top of the bed that he realised he probably ought to have a bath before doing anything else.

 _Plenty of time,_ Mr Barrow had said.

Better to do it now than risk infringing upon the established order of things at the end of the evening, as well. He had precedence, of course, until Wednesday he was the highest ranking member of the household, but he didn't like to pull rank if he could avoid it. The resident staff at Downton seemed pleasant enough, despite all the stories he'd heard prior to his arrival, and honey caught more flies than vinegar.

A lesson Lawton would do well to learn… he hoped poor Miss Baxter hadn't taken her snubbing personally.

Reluctantly, Richard sat up and put his shoes, and after a short internal debate his jacket, back on. He didn't actually know where the washroom _was,_ although he was certain he'd been given directions. He must have been.

A towel was folded and hung beside the door; he took it and started down the hall. The house was grand but not the grandest he'd ever seen, not by a few, so he figured it shouldn't be much trouble to find what he was looking for. The problem was, only a few of the doors were labeled and he didn't fancy going around trying all the knobs.

He did remember one door, though.

One that _was_ labeled. But he was beginning to think maybe he would have remembered it even without the reminder.

"Excuse me," and he knocked, lightly and with the back of his hand. "Mr Barrow?"

"Yes?"

So he was in, then.

"Er, it's Ellis – " 

The door opened. 

"Don't know who else it could be," said Mr Barrow, casual like, thoughtful, but it was teasing. Or at least, Richard thought it must have been; in any case it wasn't the sort of behaviour he was accustomed to from country household butlers, and no matter how he liked to think of himself as quick on his feet, already it had him fumbling. "If you were one of ours you'd be working — what is it?"

And Richard found himself struggling to get the words out, because although he was half behind the door it was plain to see that Mr Barrow was in his shirtsleeves: a white silk tie hanging loose around his neck, a dress waistcoat open at his chest, revealing the straps of his braces.

He hadn't expected that.

"I… wondered if you might show me to the washroom," he said slowly.

"Could also just tell you how to get there," Mr Barrow replied. He was raising his eyebrows and doing something with his lips that could only be called smirking, blithe. "Did you forget already?"

"No," Richard said instinctively, cheeks burning, and Mr Barrow almost laughed.

Though it was obviously a lie, he said only, "can't imagine we're much more complicated than Buckingham Palace," and that was probably something to be thankful for.

"You'd be surprised."

He tried not to stare at the man's hands as he began to do up his tie… Impressive, without a mirror. He made quick work of it, too, and then he was doing up the buttons of his waistcoat, looking down as he did so. Like he didn't have anybody watching him with keen eyes and blushed cheeks while he did it. Maybe he didn't know — or maybe he wasn't worried, that was more likely. Nothing wrong with getting dressed in front of another servant, was there? Footmen shared rooms, after all.

Richard shifted side to side on his feet, uncomfortable, knowing how likely it was he _would_ see something wrong in it if he knew. Because he shouldn't have been watching. It shouldn't have interested him at all how he tied bows or did up buttons — 

"You ever a valet?" he stammered, trying to stop the runaway train in his head from going too far off the damn rails.

Mr Barrow finished the final button, thumbed at it, and then he was looking up and squinting at Richard in a way that made him feel small and foolish. "'Course I was a valet, nobody gets to be a butler without ever having been a valet – okay," and he stepped properly into the corridor, "it's just down the passage on the left there, two doors down, from your room that'd be…" He paused, tilted his head to the side. "Er, guess if you remembered how to find mine you'll know how to find it again, won't you?"

And when put like that he _was_ small and foolish, wasn't he? Why had he asked such a question out of the blue? Couldn't he have said anything else?

"So long as I remember how to get to my own," Richard returned, with a smile that he hoped to high Heaven wasn't awkward. Just like him to remember where somebody's bedroom was in favour of the damn _washroom_. He'd do his best not to entertain any hopes of ever seeing the former.

And not a moment before the silence became too long, too still, right at the time when ordinarily he'd start thinking himself into a turn over wondering if the man he was speaking with could _tell_ somehow...

"I'll tell you what, Mr Ellis," Mr Barrow said, considering. Genuine. He had a gaze like daggers. "There's not much that surprises me these days."

"Reckon if anything could it'd be what we're about to bring down on you."

"Said not much, not nothing – er, if that's all, then?"

And he went back into his room without waiting for an answer, out of sight, but with the door still halfway open.

It took all of Richard's strength not to poke his head in and peer around.

He coughed, said, "thanks, yeah, I'll, erm, let you dress."

"No need," and those words did something to him, _no need to let him dress_ … if only, Richard thought, and then he swallowed it and its accompanying feeling back down as best as he could. Not the place, certainly not the time.

When Mr Barrow reappeared he was slipping his arms through a dinner jacket, tails and all. Richard found himself resisting the urge to straighten his lapels, but it wasn't until the man did it himself that he was at all successful.

He almost looked like he ought to have been seated at the upstairs dinner, not serving it.

"May as well show you anyway, since I'm headed down," he said lightly. "Can't be late, though, Lady Mary's had it up to here with me," he brought his hand up to his eyebrows, "so you'll have to find things on your own from here on out – "

"I shouldn't think I'll have any trouble."

"No," said Mr Barrow. "No, doesn't seem like you will to me."

And Richard didn't quite know what to make of that.


	2. Chapter 2

Once finished with supper he found himself in a staring contest with Lawton, seated diagonally across from him beside the housekeeper — neither of them knew their place in all this. Their real one, that was, not the theoretical one. How things worked out on paper with these visits wasn't always what happened, or, not until the rest of the entourage arrived, at least. They two were the in-betweeners. 

Richard had the sense that the dismissal they were both anxiously waiting for wasn't going to come any time soon.

Every household was different, of course, but this one had something the rest of them didn't… or maybe it lacked something the rest of them had. He wouldn't call it discipline, in the few hours he'd been around they'd all gotten plenty of work done and well, at that, but the resident staff at Downton resembled to him a family more than a formation. 

It was proof, he supposed, that a house could be run properly without an iron fist. Or, _efficiently,_ rather. There was very little that was proper here. No matter how hard he tried to refrain from judging...

"You're awfully quiet, Mr Ellis," said Mr Barrow, and though he wasn't loud himself in saying it Richard could tell that the words drew attention from the rest of the table. There was the family aspect — when somebody important was talking, the rest listened without being told, even if they pretended not to.

He _had_ fallen quiet; he hadn't expected to be caught out in it.

Lawton was scowling.

"Not used to talking after a meal," Richard said, his apprehension plain in his voice. (He wasn't used to eating with resident staff, either, but there was little to be done about that after it'd already happened.)

And nobody was bothering with pretending not to eavesdrop now.

"What, you mean at all?" from further down the table.

He turned to look, tried to smile at the woman who'd asked. The under-cook.

"The Royal Household disallows it."

They all stared.

And stared. 

And stared.

He was conscious of Mr Barrow at his right, looking amused and at a loss for words — brow raised, lips parted, head cocked to the side.

Uncomfortable, Richard started to rub his thumb along the handle of his cup; at a pointed glance from Lawton he stopped. She always noted his fidgeting before anyone else, a fact he ought to have been thankful for given how many times her judging eyes had saved him from a reprimanding, but these days it served only to make him feel like a child more often than not. After six years of working parallel they knew one another's ills and errs as much as they did their own, but they often chose to acknowledge them more in the way of squabbling siblings than two grown adults who generally meant to have one another's backs, if nothing more.

Luckily, she seemed thrown equally off kilter by the sudden awkward silence. Made him feel better. So much as he liked to think of himself as charismatic and personable, there were some things even he couldn't handle.

At last: "You can't be serious," said Mr Bates. "They don't allow you to speak?"

"Not when we might be making ourselves useful _elsewhere,_ " said Lawton pointedly. 

He'd kick her under the table if there were no risk of getting Mrs Hughes instead.

"Is that right," Mr Bates returned. His gaze was a touch too considering for Richard's liking.

"And the Palace being as it is, elsewhere's everywhere," Richard said, aiming to be more lighthearted. "No time to gather us rosebuds, besides. The dressers eat first."

"Then the footmen."

So she was going to participate after all.

"Then the lower footmen," Richard said, with a nod toward Lawton, as he couldn't very well thank her aloud for deigning to be civil for once, and to do so might have been premature anyway.

"Then the maids," she finished. "The kitchen staff and all the rest are separate."

"What about hallboys?"

"Albert," said Mrs Bates and Mrs Hughes at once… but Mr Barrow looked at each of them pointedly, and no further comment was made.

Richard was trying to come up with a delicate way of answering the question when Lawton, smirking into her teacup, beat him to it and without the tact he was hoping for. "All the rest," she repeated.

Poor Albert's ears were pink.

"Dressers, footmen, lower footmen," said Mr Bates — he was determined, Richard would give him that. "How many of you are there, exactly?"

There was the question with the most unpalatable answer.

"Oh, several hundred," said Lawton, and she sipped at her tea.

He knew what was coming next even before she pushed back her chair and stood. "If I may I think I'll excuse myself," she said, and though the rest of the table wore their shock plain on their faces Mr Barrow only lifted his hands as if to say _do as you like._

After she'd flounced from the room, Mrs Patmore said, " _she's_ more useful elsewhere, isn't she," and the tittering began and ended in an instant.

All eyes were on him again.

And he found himself looking to Mr Barrow.

"Several hundred?" he asked before he could apologise, eyebrows raised. 

That smirk of his was doing a number on his heart.

"The Royal Household's not known for its austerity," Richard said wryly, and he took a sip of his own tea, which had cooled considerably.

All the room began to breathe again.

"Well," said Mrs Hughes after a moment. "You're not at Buckingham Palace now…"

"That's one way of putting it," from Mrs Patmore again; the remark earned her a few sideways glances.

This was an amusing bunch; he was certain of that already.

Even if they were all walking on eggshells.

"Right," Richard said, figuring that if small talk wasn't a crime in this house he might as well take advantage. "How long do we linger, then?"

The _we_ was important… gave folks some sense that he didn't see himself as above them, if nothing else. Whether he did or not there was no reason to make others aware of it.

"'Til a bell rings," said Mrs Bates promptly. "And we don't _always_ linger, just when there isn't much left to do…more and more often these days, isn't it?"

"Perhaps for some," said Mrs Hughes to Mr Barrow, and Richard didn't miss the resulting smirk.

"Do you think Lady Mary may be coming round to Mr Talbot's side of things, then?" asked Miss Baxter, and this launched the entire table into a discussion about changing times that he had very little to contribute to… but he'd learn more by listening.

The talk lasted, of course, until a bell rang — "drawing room," Mr Barrow said to him — and then all were moving, a well-oiled machine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the timeline for this chapter.......... just pretend it makes sense. we technically don't know when the Not Footballs scene occurs but this is After That. alternate universe canon divergence there are enough hours in the day (it is mid july in yorkshire during the film and yet it is WAY too dark half the time for that to be #Accurate so) (i am making alterations)

He took the time between supper and bed to attempt to get the lay of the land on his own, at least where the servants' wing was concerned. He'd have to ask someone to show him around upstairs the next morning: it would be polite, for one thing, and for another, the place had about three hundred or so rooms in it, and he didn't fancy getting lost in the young ladies' corridor or some place else.

Not that there were any young ladies remaining in the house, a fact for which he probably ought to have been thankful. Downton Abbey had a refreshing dearth of housemaids, as well.

Then, the poor dears must have been terribly overworked, keeping a place like this spick and span…

But that was hardly his responsibility.

So Richard found the laundry room and the sewing room and the brushing room and boot room and the gun room, then made sure he could find them again from the opposite direction. The attics, too, were simple enough as it was to navigate now that he'd been over them a couple of times. It was the rest of the place that would give him trouble if there was to be any, and though he knew very well whom he wanted to ask about the upstairs tour, he also knew it was bound to be a footman or perhaps a hallboy, if he got up early enough, actually giving it.

_If he got up early enough…_

Things would all make more sense come morning. 

Everything always did. Dawn had a way about her.

But though he'd had a long day, Richard wasn't inclined to turn in just yet, and he ended up seated in the servants' hall with a book while the house wound down around him.

For company he had an under-cook, a valet, and a baby, which was a far cry from what he was accustomed to, but he'd no right to complain.

Besides, they were interesting.

"...but Thomas says we'll just have to wait and see."

"Mrs Patmore's not gonna take it lyin' down, though, no matter what… and neither will I, but, the more I think about it, I can't help but think maybe it's a sign."

"A sign of what?" — plainly amused.

"That maybe I'm right in all this. I know I'd rather not only be cookin' for other _servants,_ but don't you think, that if I'm going to be a proper republican – "

"Don't let Mrs Patmore hear you say that."

"Said it to her first, didn't I? and anyway, it's not as if Thomas minds."

"But what if Mr Carson were to stop by?"

"What's Mr Carson got to do with it? Anna said _you're_ not even a Royalist either – " 

Richard closed his book around his thumb and cleared his throat; they both turned toward him from the other end of the table.

He always did like seeing that look on people's faces.

"Mr Ellis, isn't it?" said Mr Bates after a moment, with a tight-lipped smile.

"It is," said Richard cordially, and he gave one he hoped seemed more genuine than what he'd received from them both… but they ought to have been watching their mouths. They'd have to soon enough, and now was the best time to start. "Mr Bates, Mrs Mason."

"Mrs Mason," Mr Bates repeated. The baby gurgled happily — it was a sound he'd never tire of hearing, but it was so out of place in a great house it startled him each time. 

But he wasn't entirely fond of that tone. "Forgive me," he started, "not the best man when it comes to names – "

"It's not that," she interrupted after a moment. "Erm, I mean, it is my name, only, I don't think I've ever been called that in me life. At least, not by somebody outside of the war office." 

Oh.

"Everyone calls her Daisy," said Mr Bates.

Calling a married ( _widowed_ , and there was a difference) woman in a senior position of the household by her Christian name. 

Wonders never ceased.

"Daisy," Richard repeated. "I gather the rules are rather different round here…"

"It's just 'cause I started as a scullery maid," Daisy added hastily. "I were Daisy for so long, and, er, I weren't never _really_ married, so – "

"Of course you were married," Mr Bates interrupted her. "And soon you will be again, and if it would please you to be called Mrs Parker we should all be glad to."

"I'm not married again _yet,_ " she said, turning toward him, suddenly quite irritated. 

Mr Bates had a quirk in his lips and a slight lift in his brow.

"But you are _engaged,_ Daisy."

"Yes, I know that, thank you, but I have been for _months,_ and..."

Richard closed his book all the way with a soft _pat,_ pushed back his chair, and that drew the focus in his direction once again.

"...you must find us very shocking, Mr Ellis," said Mr Bates, after Daisy failed to finish her thought.

"I might do," he replied lightly. He didn't, especially; he'd been warned by hearsay before his arrival. The house had been subject to more than its fair share of gossip and scandal in his lifetime. But it was different, being in the thick of it, rather than hearing a passing remark from a maid who ought to know better or a footman who hadn't yet learned to think before he speaks… The two of them kept on looking at him expectantly. Richard started fanning the corners of his book with his thumb — or perhaps he'd been doing that and had only just noticed. "Is the Earl of Grantham a very forward-thinking man, then?" he asked.

Mr Bates's smile became a touch more genuine. (It might have been they were all genuine, and Richard was too accustomed to ones that weren't he'd made assumptions where they were unwarranted.) "Everyone is forward-thinking, these days."

Richard raised his eyebrows.

"I'd drink to it," he said carefully. "But I don't know that I'd agree."

"I don't suppose so," said Daisy thoughtfully. "Do you have to do everything the old-fashioned way at Buckingham Palace?"

"Depends on how you mean, old-fashioned," Richard replied. "But the rank and file are subject to tradition same as always — I'd lose my place, if I married."

Among other things.

That was the least of his worries.

"And what a place it is," returned Mr Bates. "I'm sure that must make for a difficult decision, for some."

Wary though he was, he tried not to let it show in his voice: "not so difficult." Richard paused. "Signed up for it when I went into service, back in the day."

"As did I… it was a different time, then, wasn't it? I'm very grateful, to His Lordship."

The weight of these words seemed still greater even than the allowances Richard could see plainly had already been made, and Mr Bates gave the sentiment no time to settle: "you've been working in the Royal Household for how long?"

Finally a simple question. "Eight years last winter."

Mr Bates lifted his head, considering; Richard nodded, _yeah, that means what you think it does._

"And you've been a valet that whole time?" asked Daisy, seemingly oblivious, although he wondered how much of that was for show.

"They brought me on for it, yeah."

"What's it like, working there?"

"Haven't had any complaints," Richard quipped. If he didn't tread lightly they'd be back to questions with more complicated answers in no time at all. "But yeah, His Majesty's got – "

"What's this about complaints?"

Daisy stood and Richard joined her, but Mr Bates remained in his seat, albeit with a straighter back… which went entirely unremarked upon. Mr Barrow gave them both a look.

"What are you two still doing here?"

"Waiting for Anna," and "waiting for Andy," they said.

"And you?"

"Not waiting for anyone," Richard returned casually. "And nor am I complaining." 

Mr Barrow raised his eyebrows before giving a curt nod. "Well," he said, "I can't tell _you_ off for being up past your bedtime, but these two…" He paused, turned to Daisy. "Andy went up. I thought he'd told you."

She scowled. "He didn't."

Mr Barrow squinted at her for a moment before turning over his shoulder toward the passage: "Albert, if Andy's not gone to – "

"Yes, Mr Barrow!"

And then the sound of hurried footfalls. 

"Never can finish a sentence around that one…"

"If you told that boy to fetch you the moon he would set off at a sprint," said Mr Bates mildly.

"And whatever do you mean by that?" asked Mr Barrow. Richard had trouble determining whether it was he spoke in mock-offense or sincerity… but he seemed to be fighting back a smile. Perhaps there was his answer. "What does he mean by that, hm, Johnnie?" to the little boy, and then he took him into his arms, held him secure at his hip. (It was only then that Mr Bates stood, cane in hand.) "If it's past my bedtime it's certainly past yours…"

Having been blessed with manners, Richard held his tongue and did not ask any of the number of questions which were circling about in his head, only stood still and observed.

Skills honed upstairs could always be employed down, in his experience.

"It is late, isn't it," said Mr Bates. "I pity us for tonight, and poor Nanny for tomorrow."

"Sleepy lad," Mr Barrow said, giving Johnnie a gentle poke, prompting a tiny laugh. He looked up, then, and if Richard wasn't mistaken his eyes went to him in the corner before returning to Mr Bates, whose attention was fixed on his son. "Thought you'd gone back already, last I saw you you were halfway out the door…"

"…moments before Lady Mary rang, I imagine."

They shared a look.

"Anna might not have a head when she gets back," said Mr Barrow darkly. "It'll be her or me that gets it bitten off eventually, I'll say that..."

"Probably you."

"Yes," with a sigh, "probably me," and he gave the boy a gentle bounce before fussing at his jacket; Richard found he couldn't tear his eyes away. 

It was that smile; that was what it was.

"In't she always like this, when Mr Talbot's away? It can't go on _that_ long – "

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that," Mr Bates interrupted. "It's not every day that Royalty come to visit… even His Lordship is a little tense."

"I don't suppose he mentioned what happened at dinner..."

And there were three sets of eyes on him again; Mr Barrow shut his mouth.

Richard ought to have gone up already and was well aware of the fact, but would it be wise to do so with all eyes upon him like this?

"I really should be going," Daisy said, breaking the silence before it had the chance to get too awkward, and Richard found himself suddenly very grateful. "I won't let Mr Mason worry, not again. Mr Barrow, when you see him could you tell Andy – "

"You can tell him yourself," a young voice said from the doorway, prompting badly concealed amused smiles from both Mr Barrow and Mr Bates, and then — 

"Tell me what?"

"That I'm walking back by meself."

"I'm down now," said Andy, rather peevishly. "I'll walk you."

"You needn't bother…"

"But Daisy – "

"It's summer and it's not dark out, I've done it before – "

As they argued Richard stared at the ceiling and thanked his lucky stars that this was not the sort of thing he'd ever be subject to hearing in a royal residence; by the looks on their faces, Mr Bates and Mr Barrow had lived through this spat many a time in the past. 

The trouble was it kept on, and on, and on, and for whatever reason he found himself with his feet rooted to the floor. To leave would be conspicuous, surely, and he could hardly _interrupt._ Besides, he still had a chance to get off on the wrong foot with these people, and flouncing from something like this might have been an excellent way to do it… he'd wait it out and say goodnight once they set out the door, and then he could go to the attics and wrap his head around all the things he hadn't expected to find at an Earl's estate in the North Riding, like staff members who lived out of the house, and an infant who spent the day with the children upstairs, and a butler who couldn't have been forty-five at the oldest who had a habit already of plucking right at his heartstrings, with the pith, and the smirking, and the making toddlers giggle with only a kind voice and a tap on the nose — 

"Why don't we all go together, at least to the cottages? It's not a bad night for it, quite nice out, really."

That was Mrs Bates, standing in the doorway in a coat and hat, putting on gloves as she spoke and looking more exhausted than anyone else he'd seen at the house thus far… although perhaps not more than the folks had been at Raby Castle, and certainly not at Castle Howard.

Not to mention his own household.

In her arrival Richard found the opening he needed to walk out from around the table; he pushed his chair in, straightened it, and… 

"A fine idea," Mr Bates returned. "Would you care to join us, Mr Ellis?"

...and there was only one way he could answer that question without coming off as better-than-thou, wasn't there.


	4. Chapter 4

"...Mr Carson wouldn't've put up with it."

" _Andy,_ why're you so moody all of a sudden?"

"Mr Carson wouldn't've put up with _this,_ either," Mr Barrow called ahead, giving Johnnie a lift as the couple turned back to look at him. "But he's not the butler anymore, now, is he?"

"He might've," said Mr Bates mildly, but the look on Mrs Bates's — _Anna's_ — face told Richard otherwise.

"Not many who would," Richard said diplomatically, and the three of them turned their heads to face him. "But the world's changing."

"Is it?" asked Mr Barrow, in a way that made it clear he thought so himself and simply did not think the fact worth stating… but that was how you got along with people, was bringing up the obvious to suit their purposes, patching up the holes in things with remarks that sounded thoughtful but had something in them to please everybody if they were inclined to listen but not to think. And most people were precisely that. Richard drew the line at platitudes, but he knew how to make small talk and he knew how to please. He was beginning to think Mr Barrow was not similarly endowed.

Or maybe the man just couldn't be bothered.

It was refreshing in a way that toed the line to being unnerving.

"If you told me ten years ago I could be married and in service I'd've thought you'd gone mad," said Anna. "But we've been very lucky, haven't we, Mr Bates?"

"Very lucky indeed."

These two, despite being pleasant enough for company, were past toeing the line: it was the smiling, the lovestruck eyes, the handholding. Things he wasn't used to seeing so close up. Each time Anna's eyes sparkled or Mr Bates beamed he felt another twist in his stomach, not to the fault of either of them, and he hung close to Mr Barrow for that reason.

That was all.

No harm could come of that.

"Speaking of Mr Carson," said Mr Barrow suddenly, "did Mrs Hughes say anything to either of you about, er, his health?"

"No," Anna answered, "why?"

"Just something I overheard."

"You might ask her about it," Mr Bates said lightly. "I'm sure it's nothing."

"John's right…" 

As they kept on about what Richard assumed was staff business or village gossip he hadn't any claim to, Daisy and Andy (in that order) slowed their pace, falling back in with the four of them. The pace of conversation quickened; the volume increased — until Mr Barrow said quietly, "he's asleep," which cast a hush over the group. After a nod from Anna, he set off several paces ahead of the rest of them.

Keeping the under-cook at an arm's length after that proved to be difficult, but Richard found he didn't mind.

Andy did, however, judging by the look on his face, but that wasn't Richard's problem. It was hardly his fault that he was a novelty, and if the young man trusted her (Richard had doubts) he'd not mind friendly conversation. Something to get used to if they were to be husband and wife, wasn't it?

He told himself he was doing his part for the health of their marriage.

After all, it wasn't as if he made for genuine competition.

"...you're from around here, aren't you?"

"Born and raised in York," he told her. "Got my first place at Hovingham Hall."

"Did you?" said Anna brightly. "That's where I started — seems so long ago, now."

"What a small world it is," commented Mr Bates.

And just like that Richard found himself at ease in a way he hadn't been in weeks, not since boarding the Royal Carriage at King's Cross back in May. That was the last time he could remember feeling at all like he'd known what he was doing and whom he was meant to be. What he'd felt then was an ease he'd had to learn over the years, one that came from training, practise and rehearsal; in the Royal Household he was a spoke in the wheel: sturdy and necessary, but rarely given any thought on his own... so long as he served his purpose. (He'd never yet splintered and never planned to.)

What he was feeling now was different: walking on well-trod grass as the summer sun took her time to set, hearing voices like his own, a coat over his uniform.

He hadn't had to learn this; it'd come with him into the world and grown alongside him. There was only one thing missing.

"Spent nearly ten years there," Richard replied, with friendliness that took less pretending than it had before. "Started in '05."

"Just as I left for Skelton Park," she said. "To be head housemaid. The pay was the same, but – "

"The position was better?"

"That's right. And then there was an opening at Downton not two years later… you can guess the rest."

Mr Bates was smiling at her like she'd put the stars in the sky. 

Richard let them have a moment; Daisy did not.

"...what'd you do after Hovingham, Mr Ellis?"

"He was there for ten years, Daisy," said Mr Bates, with a nonchalance that seemed rather forced. "From 1905." 

Richard shot him a thankful look.

" – right," Daisy said, but she kept looking at him.

"Well, I left for the reason you might guess," he answered slowly. His fingers found a loose thread in his coat pocket and decided against his will to pull at it. "After returning to Britain I did my home service at Parlington Hall, then I met some people, and now here I am in the Royal Household."

After a fashion.

"Parlington's not too far, is it?" said Anna. "What did you do there?"

"Anna…"

"Just down in Aberford," Richard told her, aiming for nonchalance but to his own ears sounding nervous; if any of them noticed, they gave no sign of it. Likely they hadn't — people never did. "It was a hospital."

"Is that right? So was Downton, or, we were a convalescent home, really, but – "

"What was Hovingham like? Anna's never said much about it."

First impressions aside, he was finding Mr Bates to be exceptional at minding the trajectory of a discussion. The man could read a room. 

Perhaps at supper he'd simply decided not to.

"Lived up to their reputation," said Richard, more cheerfully. "Strict as anything."

To her credit, Anna caught on; she gave him an apologetic look, brow creased and head tilted. "I thought so, too, until Downton Abbey."

Richard raised his eyebrows.

"It hasn't always been like this," she said quickly. "Er, back before the war…"

"Right," he said, about as hastily as she'd done. All roads led to Rome, but that didn't mean they had to take any more of them. "Well, they gave me a good foundation. Got promoted to valet in 1912, carried on from there."

"You must've been quite young," said Mr Bates.

"Still am," he quipped, which made Daisy laugh a bit too loudly. This was nothing to encourage, he was well aware of that, but he flashed her a smile anyway and gave Andy a nod of recognition just in case. It was not returned. "The young master was about a year older than I was," he told Mr Bates. "It was a good fit."

"I remember him," Anna said, tone very nonchalant.

And he thought he knew why.

"I imagine," said Richard, amused. Of all the things he'd expected to remember today... "Can't think he was much appreciated by the maids." 

"Mud _everywhere_ ," and then to Mr Bates, "the boy was out playing cricket every day."

"Paid off, too, by the look of it," Richard added. "Playing for clubs now." He paused. "Been long enough you may not remember, but the worst day of the year was – "

"The house match," she finished, and he nodded. "They have one here, as well. The maids always liked it until – "

"They had to do the washing?" asked Mr Bates. "It was like that here, in the old days. I remember the first."

"Your first," corrected Anna, fond. "Back in _1912._ "

"It took me ages to get a green mark out of His Lordship's shoes…"

" _Oh,_ " said Daisy suddenly. "And when you asked Thomas if he'd – "

"For once in his life he hadn't."

"He'd been too busy bothering poor William."

" _Bothering_ is one way of putting it."

"It weren't so bad _then_ , it was after he started – "

"One can never trust Daisy's memory about Thomas in those days, especially when it comes to cricket," interrupted Mr Bates, casually. "Or any maid's, for that matter."

Offended: "we could hardly _help_ it – "

"I found his athletic prowess impressive, I will admit."

"Mr Bates," scolded Anna; were it not for the genuinely chagrined look on his face and Daisy's sudden focus upon anything but the rest of them, Richard would have found her tone unduly harsh. 

But the air between the three of them had undeniably changed. There was something in all this he wasn't privy to, to do with people he didn't know about. Feeling rather like he was a guest overstaying his welcome, he bit his tongue in his mouth and kept his hands in his pockets; it was a small comfort to see that Andy, _very_ quiet, seemed to feel equally ill at ease.

"Anyway, it was the same at Hovingham," Anna said after a moment. "Except the house team always won… there was a rumour in the village they asked to see footmen bat during the interview."

Richard laughed, and it was this that seemed to get the others breathing again.

"They didn't," he said. He did not tell them that he would not have been hired were that the case; the talk was making him more nervous than he wanted to admit. It was paranoia, he told himself, and it hardly suited him. What had prompted it he hadn't the faintest. He'd not been at Downton a day; he'd done little to discourage unwanted attention; he would be _fine._ Richard changed the subject back to what it had been before, deflecting: "are most of the staff local to the area?"

"The maids all live in the village," said Mr Bates, "and so does the other hall boy, but otherwise…"

"Daisy and I are from the county," Anna went on. "I grew up near Whitby, Daisy's from –"

"Leeds," Daisy said, "er, sort of, I've lived round here for longer, and Miss Baxter and – "

"Mr Barrow," Andy interrupted loudly, overlapping her; she snapped her mouth shut. "They're from – "

But then he stopped.

"I don't know, exactly," said Daisy thoughtfully. "Anna, d'you remember?"

They all looked at each other.

"Lancashire," Mr Bates said at last.

Richard had come to that conclusion on his own, courtesy of his ears.

"That's right," from Anna, although she seemed to be thinking the same thing. "And so is Mrs Patmore, right around the border, but…" She trailed off. "How do we not know?"

"None of us talk about our homes very much," remarked Mr Bates. "Perhaps with good reason."

Hardly uncommon, in service… he was one of the lucky ones.

The awkward silence was broken by cries from several yards ahead; Anna looked suddenly ten years older. They all stopped walking.

"Will you go or shall I?" asked Mr Bates, but she shook her head. 

"Probably just tired," she said wearily. "We're not very far..."

And indeed they likely weren't: they'd come up on the estate cottages. Nevertheless Anna set off at a marching pace, and the rest of them followed with more intention in their steps. 

Richard watched, interested: when she met Mr Barrow the two of them walked together but made no exchange. Mr Bates, meanwhile, seemed content to slow down; he waved the three of them ahead.

Three was a crowd.

"Where are you two headed, then?" he asked, after they'd been trudging along in a silence that he suspected would have been comfortable if not for his presence for a hair too long.

They'd all done a fine job of making him feel welcome from the moment he'd agreed to join them, but he knew the score. No matter what they had in common, he was still an outsider, and these people had been working alongside one another for years upon years.

"Daisy's father-in-law has a farm," said Andy. "She sleeps there, and I walk her back in the evenings — right?"

"He can _see_ it," replied Daisy, a crinkle in her nose and cheeks. "I don't think you've got to put it like _that._ Erm, I live with him now, but I haven't always done. Just for about the last year or so, maybe a little longer…"

"Is it very difficult, living away from the big house?"

It seemed to him to be more trouble than it was worth, but then, he might have disagreed if he actually had the opportunity — and certainly if he had, his mother would likely try to insist he take it.

"It can be, yeah," she answered. Andy was back to giving him cautious sideways glances that were not nearly so inconspicuous as he likely thought they were. "I couldn't ever've done it when I were a kitchen maid, but I've not got hours so long as that anymore… and I don't mind the walk, at least in the summer."

"Summer's quite nice here, isn't it, Daisy?"

The question seemed to carry more weight than chat about the weather normally did. Daisy frowned; Richard opened his mouth –

"I'm not from here, Mr Ellis," Andy added. "I grew up around London and didn't move here until a few years ago, but I do like the country."

"Hard not to," Richard replied, and this time, at least, his smile was returned. 

"I like London," said Daisy thoughtfully. "Though, I don't know if I could _live_ there."

"Well, it isn't for everyone," he said, because that was what you were meant to say to things like that, and Daisy nodded.

"I haven't spent _much_ time there – "

"It isn't for me," Andy interrupted. "Not anymore."

 _Jesus,_ Richard thought, and Daisy looked vaguely impatient.

"My family — er, what's left of it, they don't see what the fuss is about Yorkshire. But they'll come for the wedding."

Daisy then looked _especially_ impatient; Richard hummed, went for what he assumed was a safe question with a prepared answer: "when is the wedding, then?"

"We haven't decided yet," Daisy answered, rushing. 

Clearly he'd assumed wrong.

"We were thinking by this autumn – "

"But we really haven't made up our minds – "

"Well, Johnnie's down for the night," said Mr Barrow, sidling up next to them out of _nowhere;_ Richard nearly jumped, "and Mr Bates went in; you three certainly made good time… Andy, can Mr Ellis and I trust you to get back to the house on your own?"

 _Mr Ellis and I_ echoed in his head.

"I do it every night, don't I, Mr Barrow?"

Mr Barrow nodded. He was biting at his lower lip, leaving it rosy; no matter where else Richard tried to look his eye was drawn back over and over. "How about at a reasonable hour?" he asked after a few seconds had passed, eyebrows raised, mouth quirked in what almost passed for a smile.

"I," said Andy, evidently floundering, but Daisy took over:

"It won't happen again, Mr Barrow," she said firmly, and she looked at her fiancé in a way that could only be described as a glare. "I've spoken about it with Mr Mason."

She spoke with a sudden maturity she hadn't had before, and Richard surveyed her carefully. He might have taken her to be younger than she really was… and now that he thought about it: she was the under-cook, she'd been at the house in 1912, she'd been married, although from how she spoke of it it hadn't necessarily been traditional — although whose was, in those days?

The woman couldn't have been much younger than he was himself.

Slightly taken aback, Mr Barrow nodded again, put his hat on his head, and took out his watch. He tilted his head. "Quarter past." ( _Quarter past what,_ Richard wondered, because the sky above was a darker blue and the orange and pink of the horizon had fallen nearly below the treeline — what time had it been when they'd left?) "Can you be back in half an hour?"

And that was interesting, too, that he said it like a footman had any choice in the matter.

Then, maybe he did.

Richard had seen stranger things that day.

"Yes, Mr Barrow."

"Tomorrow, then," said Mr Barrow, with an acknowledging nod. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mr Barrow," they echoed, "Mr Ellis," and Daisy waved as they set off at a quicker pace they'd been at before, soon looking more like squabbling children than a couple who by all rights ought to have been in their honeymoon phase… 

"Reckon I may've thrown a spanner in the works," said Richard, after they were well enough away. He needed to stop doing that sort of thing.

"Don't be too sorry over it," said Mr Barrow wryly, "they do that themselves… you heading back with me, then?"

And he tilted his head toward back up the way they'd came.

Instead of answering aloud, Richard merely fell in step beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Hovingham Hall was real, it did have a young Baronet-to-be who became a first-class cricketer. This is fictionalised. Do not sue me Worsley Estate.  
> 2) Parlington Hall is also real but was not a war hospital. In fact it was unoccupied by that time and has now been mostly demolished. A house within the same family, Lotherton Hall, is also real, and was a war hospital, but it was a privately funded one associated with the Voluntary Aid Detachment; Richard's fictional one was organised and operated by (drumroll please) the Royal Army Medical Corps.  
> 3) Yes I make choices  
> 4) I am not British. Sorry if you are and I'm making egregious errors, but I've tried to knock those out and leave only the not egregious ones.  
> 4a) Look up the boundaries of Lancashire circa the 1900s before correcting me on counties perhaps  
> 5) I love all of you very much thank you for reading!!!!!!!!!!! Stay healthy keep those hands clean! I was in bed all day today but my pneumonia is clearing up with the help of some high powered asthma medication. <3


	5. Chapter 5

They'd made it scarcely a few yards before Mr Barrow said, ever so casually, "so, you lot seemed to get on well."

"Did we?" asked Richard, glancing over at him, but it told him nothing. Mr Barrow's eyes were straight ahead; his hat tilted just enough over his face that Richard couldn't make much of it out. (An awful pity, if not for the fact that it kept him from ogling.)

They were walking with purpose, as they should have been, given the hour, but that didn't stop him from wanting to linger. He was especially prone to that, lingering, and it wasn't something he often had the chance for — but just because this was a chance for _him_ to slow down and take a deep breath didn't make it a chance for Mr Barrow, who had a house to tuck in for the night, to do the same.

"Why? D'you feel differently?"

_Is he often ill?_

Richard hummed. "Curious to know what it looked like from the outside," he said carefully. Much too honest for the circumstances.

"Looked like you got on well," Mr Barrow returned, utterly inscrutable.

"I imagine you know them better than I do," Richard said, "so I'll take your word for it." He paused. There were things he wanted to know, questions he wanted to ask, and though he was as fond of a quiet walk as anyone this was likely to be his only chance to ask them. But there was no guarantee that Mr Barrow would have liked to give any answers, and he knew all too well the dangers of asking for more than was offered, taking more than he was meant to receive.

But what harm could come of small talk? 

People didn't like to really think about it, but how a man handled himself while bandying about pleasantries gave away plenty about his character. How he spoke of others, how he spoke of the weather… there were things to be seen, there. It wasn't so meaningless as all that, not really. And it was easy to make fun of the banality of the words exchanged in drawing and parlour rooms, but anyone who paid close attention in a servants' hall would see precisely the same patterns.

Chatter was like thread in a tapestry: meaningless on its own, but when woven into something larger… 

Nobody was truly vapid, and there was only so far pretending could get you.

So if he could just get Mr Barrow _right_ up to that line, he might toe it on his own. 

"Was nice to just talk to people," said Richard mildly. It was true, at least.

Mr Barrow laughed. "Do you really not do that very often, then?"

The only flaw in the plan was that Mr Barrow wasn't very predictable.

If Richard wasn't careful where he stepped, he'd be toeing the line first.

"It's… strongly discouraged," he said slowly. "Outside of meal times, and the sleeping quarters. Conversation's a distraction."

"A distraction," repeated Mr Barrow. 

Richard shrugged, vaguely uncomfortable. "Doesn't mean we all follow the rule all the time…"

"Rubbish you even have the rule, if you ask me," he said abruptly. "You can't be expected to keep your mouths shut all day."

"If you'd like to tell the King Emperor and Queen Consort what to expect of their servants, Mr Barrow," Richard replied, "be my guest."

This did not deter him.

"When've they ever set foot in a servants' hall? They're not paying you to talk – "

"That's exactly why – "

" – so, long as you do what they _are_ paying you for…" Mr Barrow trailed off, shrugging his shoulders. "You're people, too, same as them."

Richard studied him carefully, as if one good glance would tell him everything he wanted to know…

It didn't, of course. He didn't get much out of it at all, but for a sense that no matter what choices he made Mr Barrow was going to have the whip hand between them. 

"You're all very political, here, aren't you?" Richard asked after a moment, and Mr Barrow scoffed. 

"Political how?"

"Some of your staff ought to be minding what they say, is all."

"Who?"

"Not my place to name names," he said, and that got him raised eyebrows and a smirk. "But I've heard the word 'republican' more in the past few hours than in the past several months."

"What," said Mr Barrow, but the mood was lighter than it'd been a moment ago. "I think servants are people, so that makes me a republican?"

"Does it?"

Mr Barrow stared at him for a few seconds before he laughed, disbelieving. "If it _did,_ " he said, "I wouldn't tell _you_."

"Wise choice," said Richard wryly. "You shouldn't."


	6. Chapter 6

"Who's Thomas?"

It was something he said to break the silence that had fallen between them, but he couldn't have said why he chose _that_ of all things to say; it was only that something about the conversation had stuck with him.

He didn't know what.

And beside him Mr Barrow took off his hat with one hand and carded through his hair with the other; when Richard looked he had a lock of it loose (looser, at least) at his forehead. 

Even so black as it was it caught the light in just a certain way… 

He was biting his lip again, too. Mr Barrow looked at him with his head cocked, eyebrows uneven, and now that he could see his face properly this felt like a much more meaningful conversation than he'd planned for. "Why do you ask?"

"Was talking about the good old days with Daisy and the Bateses," Richard said, mild. "The name came up a few times."

Perhaps twice. Three times at most. 

He'd only remembered because he had a good memory and a magpie mind, and, too, there had been something about their _faces…_

"What _about_ the good old days," with just a hint of a bite behind the words.

Richard shrugged.

"Going into service," he said, and though Mr Barrow seemed suddenly very suspicious in a way that made his mouth feel full of cotton it didn't take much effort at all to sound mild, "the like. Found out Anna and I were at the same house, though not at the same time," he'd have to make sure he didn't call her _Anna_ around anyone from his own household; that was asking in plain English to receive a clip round the ear, "and, er, it happens that Downton Abbey and Hovingham Hall have the very same tradition of a house cricket match – "

"You were talking about cricket," interrupted Mr Barrow.

That loose thread in his pocket was very enticing again. "Yeah."

"You play?"

"Not well," said Richard carefully.

Mr Barrow glanced at him at the same time Richard turned his head; they locked eyes, and the other man had a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a sort of half-smile. Whether it was making fun or something else (something more?) Richard couldn't ascertain, but it was there, wasn't it; he couldn't draw his eyes away from his lips —

_Always been of the literary sort, Mr Barrow… Never quite found my footing on the field, Mr Barrow… Cared more for the arts, Mr Barrow…_

— it was much too early on to be saying things like that.

"But I know the rules," Richard added hastily.

The moment ended; the danger passed.

"Ahead of some people in that," Mr Barrow said, a little too casual. "I don't s'pose you'd've had much practice as a boy… Not meant to be our sport, is it."

 _More than you know,_ thought Richard.

"Guess not," he said.

"For me growing up it was mostly rugby," Mr Barrow went on, "and football."

"Hm," said Richard.

"Yes," a bit drawn out and questioning; perhaps he'd sounded more disbelieving than he'd meant to. "Mostly, like I said. Lived in the city when I was a boy and we never played it properly, so I didn't pick it up like I wanted. Cricket I mean."

 _This doesn't mean anything,_ Richard told himself, _you would be deeply offended if you heard the thoughts in your head come from another man's mouth..._

"But, I do all right for Lord Grantham every year…"

"You do play, then?"

"Not poorly," he quipped.

Of course, it was no concern of Richard's whether or not Mr Barrow could hold his own running around on a field whacking a ball around… but by Heaven did he want it to be, and there was something again about the way he was _looking_ at him… 

"Was never very athletic, myself," said Richard blithely.

A careless thing to say at best. Richard didn't like to be the one who offered anything of himself first.

"Were you not?"

"No," airy. 

Mr Barrow nodded, a set in his mouth and an odd look in his eye. 

At worst… 

"'Swhy I went into service," Richard joked, as though that would help matters in _either_ direction… But perhaps that was giving him too much credit, if he were normal.

"I imagine your parents were pleased by that," said Mr Barrow, still with a sharp eye but with no other indication he knew or saw or understood any of it at all. Not that he necessarily should have done. "No room and board for sportsmen."

"Service does have its draws."

"But that hardly means it hasn't got any drawbacks," he replied. "Although, maybe not for _you…_ "

"If I'm going to bite the hand that feeds me, Mr Barrow," said Richard, "I'll not do so before a stranger."

"I didn't ask you to." He paused. He'd been smirking, but then it faltered. "Thomas is me."

Richard opened his mouth before he knew what he wanted to say.

"You may as well know, 'cause you're gonna hear people call me that, 'swhat happens when you work some place your whole bloody career – pardon my – "

"No need."

It happened again; they looked at the same time, and Mr Barrow was smiling. "You're not all you look like, Mr Ellis, are you," he said, and then he was back to facing forward.

Richard wasn't.

If that was all it took to get some tension out of the man's shoulders… 

"What do I look like?" he asked, prodding. 

"Somebody who'd mind," Mr Barrow said, matter-of-fact and a touch incredulous, like he'd been asked _what colour is the sky_ and was answering _blue._

"I don't mind very much of anything," Richard countered. 

"Lots of people think so 'til they come here."

"Haven't found much what bothers me yet."

"Aside from our having the gall to loiter at the dining table…"

Richard laughed, shook his head. "No," he said, "as a matter of fact, Mr Barrow, I found it nice to see servants acting like people for a change."

"We're only people downstairs, Mr Ellis," returned Mr Barrow. "But let's hope for your sake it stays that way… that's you not minding."

"We'll have to see, won't we?"

And it was the sort of thing that in other circumstances would give him the advantage of having the last word… but they still had a ways to go before they were at the house.

Still, Mr Barrow didn't say anything.

He could have stayed quiet, too, could have let them walk on in companionable silence without risking anything or poking at hornets' nests, but he had a burning curiosity to learn what made this man tick; his head was full of questions.

Some simpler than others.

Some more _appropriate_ than others, for that matter.

When the silence got to be truly unbearable, however, Richard blurted, "so if you're Thomas, who's William?"

"Blimey, you _were_ talking about the old days," muttered Mr Barrow, and whatever there was of a smile had disappeared without a trace, replaced by a frown — but then his lips set and his brow unfurrowed, a picture of impassivity, not a trace of emotion. That was more telling than a heart-on-one's-sleeve, sometimes. "I'm not the one you should be asking about William," evenly. "'In fact, Mr Ellis, if I may, you shouldn't be asking anybody about William, but if you do want to go around snooping about people who used to work here there're better choices than me."

Definitely more telling.

"I'll keep that in mind," Richard said slowly.

"Yeah, you should do." A beat. "Sorry."

"No harm done, Mr Barrow."

Mr Barrow huffed. "But maybe just don't. Go asking around, I mean. If it's worth your knowing I'll tell you." 

"Sorry."

"No harm done, Mr Ellis," Mr Barrow replied, more sing-song than Richard had been — he couldn't tell if he was being made fun of or not.

Probably _or not,_ after that. Clearly he intended they keep talking. Or, Richard thought it was clear, but… 

But he really couldn't tell, as with everything else.

"Well, the same goes for you, then," Richard told him. "I'm sure you and I both know better than to share the business of our employers," and Mr Barrow chuckled, just before he raised his eyebrows and tilted his head and Richard had to look away again, "but if you find yourself curious about the staff of the Royal Household…"

"Ask?"

"And if it's worth your knowing I'll tell you."

Thoughtful, Mr Barrow nodded; he licked at his lips again; Richard wanted to grab him by the shoulders and —

"What's Miss Lawton's problem, then?"

Richard laughed. "Ask me an easier one."

"No, really."

Christ.

He had to think about what to say — she wasn't his _friend,_ exactly, but they stuck together for good reasons. And he did like her, now that he'd come to know her better. Six years working in the same place and it took travelling in his home county for them to come to a proper understanding.

On the other hand, she wasn't very nice to be around.

He settled on, "nobody likes playing second fiddle, Mr Barrow."

"And?"

"And that's how it works, with two dressers."

Mr Barrow nodded, almost smiling.

He was actually mulling it over, Richard realised, and he added, "and if you can find me somebody in service who hasn't got a chip on his or her shoulder…"

"Yeah, yeah, all right. Your turn."

Richard blinked. "My – "

"Ask me something."

So he was being invited to question, now.

This was going better than he could have hoped for.

"You said you grew up in the city," and Thomas looked at him with a twist in his lips, questioning. "Where, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Manchester," he said. "Proper."

Simple enough.

"And… the others mentioned Lady Grantham's maid?"

"Miss Baxter lived a few doors down from me in those days, yes."

"Does she not now?" Richard asked lightly.

"Very funny, Mr Ellis — wouldn't the others've told you all that? If you spent all that time walking down memory lane…"

"I did ask," even. He didn't know why he felt so defensive — and he _hadn't_ asked, he realised, so why had he said he had? "They didn't seem to know exactly."

Something changed in his face; he opened his mouth, then frowned, closed it. Richard looked at the ground in front of them.

"Yeah, well," said Mr Barrow slowly, "she and I are city people."

This was not headed in any especially nice direction, Richard could tell. "But you've worked here... what, fifteen odd years? Twenty?" 

In the country.

"Something like that."

"Ever any place else?"

The gravel crunched beneath their feet; he didn't answer for several more paces. A glance sideways told Richard he was steadfastly not looking at him.

He had a nice profile, Mr Barrow… strong nose, sharp cheekbones. And a mouth that seemed to be doing something every time he looked at it, which was getting to be too frequently.

"Is this a job interview, Mr Ellis?"

Much, much, much too frequently.

Embarrassed, Richard lowered his eyes and shrugged; he willed some witty remark to come into his head but none _did,_ and so he was forced to reckon with the fact that he'd walked himself into this situation and was unlikely to be able to walk right back out —

"'Just thought you'd ask about all the married people or Johnnie or something, not _me_ — erm, I left for a few months a couple years ago," said Mr Barrow eventually, with a shrug, "before that, took a holiday for four and a half years," and Richard looked up sharply and caught Mr Barrow giving him a meaningful look, and he didn't know what to do or say, "but no, not really. I started in 1910, same as Daisy. Before then it was…" He trailed off. "Look, I know what I've just said, but am – are we really that interesting to you?"

_You are._

But he already thought his questions were too much, and of course he was right in that, it wasn't his place. Why should he be so interested in him, if he were normal? 

He bit back a frown — showing anything on his face at all seemed liable to give him away — and managed to look from him. "Some of you more than others," he said, slowly but cheerfully, and though it was still getting him _very_ close to toeing a line he could get tied up in, he knew as well as anybody that a man who didn't expect other men to flirt with him typically didn't notice when they did.

That he could almost always rely upon.

Except that Mr Barrow _was_ noticing —

"Like?"

It was so pointed that Richard could have laughed. Instead, he allowed himself a smile and resolved to say nothing for as long as he could get away with it, to let things sit still between them. He so rarely ever wanted to — when other people had empty spaces to fill in, they never did it in ways that he especially liked — but he had the sense maybe he could, with Mr Barrow. 

He just needed to be sure he left him with exactly the right amount of it: enough space to enter, but not enough to wander around in.

Richard got lucky, because it wasn't long before Mr Barrow sort of laughed, awkward; he put his hat back on his head. 

"If I were you," he started, "royal servant come down from London, deigning to mingle with the common folk…" 

Or maybe he hadn't gotten lucky after all.

"Yes?"

"Can think of a few people who'd catch my eye here, I suppose."

Words to make his pulse quicken and his palms sweat, if he read too much into them.

"Like?" he asked, and Mr Barrow laughed again, but it had more behind it this time and wasn't very awkward at all.

The man had no right to be so charming.

"Well, you've already noticed Daisy," he said lightly. 

Too lightly.

"Perhaps not for the right reasons," Richard said, mild and blithe and like he wasn't tangling himself up in a web that was going to be impossible to get out of if he weren't careful, and when Mr Barrow sucked in a sharp breath and huffed he found himself frantic and struggling to conceal it. "I intend to let sleeping dogs lie, for what it's worth."

Mr Barrow bit his lip and watched his feet as he walked.

"Not your place to name names," he said.

"Indeed it isn't."

In reality it _was,_ they both knew that, and as a matter of fact it was one of his explicit duties during visits like this, to point out any and all sources of sabotage or subterfuge — one he never took very seriously. People were entitled to their opinions, after all. Besides, the idea that anyone would dare even to _try_ with an odd dozen senior members of the Royal Household in their midst (and that was those at the house alone) was so far-fetched as to be laughable.

And if anyone did, he'd be so impressed by the sheer nerve he'd likely decide to sit back and watch.

"What _would_ the right reasons be, then?"

This was a test of some sort; he knew that immediately.

"I should think there aren't any, in this case," he said, hasty. "She's engaged to be married."

"Doesn't act like it, though, does she?"

Richard held his tongue.

"But I'm sure you can be trusted, Mr Ellis," continued Mr Barrow, an edge in his voice. "You don't strike me as the type to lead somebody astray."

"Mr Barrow, I have no designs on the virtue of any member of your staff, I can assure you."

"Well, I'm sure Mrs Hughes will be glad of that," he replied. 

"And rightly so."

"But our housemaids won't be."

This was an _extremely_ frank discussion to be having on his first night at a house.

Or at all.

Ordinarily he was asleep at this hour, or winding down to be… 

Mr Barrow didn't seem to like letting things sit, either, and so it was no surprise when the awkward quiet once again didn't last for very long.

"Well," he said, "we've been talking all about me, but you can't've grown up very far from here, what's your story?"

And despite all that had just been said between them, Richard laughed. "Can't I have?"

"No."

"You don't say," he said, eyebrows raised, and Mr Barrow's tongue passed between his lips.

Though their pace had slowed — this had turned into a stroll, somehow, about which Richard saw nothing to complain — the house was now drawing nearer and nearer faster than he'd have liked. It had seemed so far away a few minutes ago.

"Thought you'd think I was an idiot if I asked like I had no idea."

"Well, you thought right, at least," Richard replied, still grinning, and Mr Barrow muttered something that might have been _Tyke._

Though he had the mind to be offended, he found in fact he couldn't be. There was something about the way the man looked and spoke and carried himself that made him want to brush it all off his shoulders. 

If only that were _all_ he wanted.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took a long time for no reason at all lol. i had all of it except like two sentences written for Weeks

"You're lucky I'm not easily offended," said Richard mildly.

"Oh, am I?"

"Heard worse in London is all."

"You say that like it's a challenge, Mr Ellis," Mr Barrow replied, a small smile at his lips. " _You're_ lucky I won't take it as one." And Richard didn't doubt that, and Mr Barrow didn't give Richard any time to be concerned by the remark: "were Daisy and Anna very pleased with you then, being from round here?"

There was something more to the words than first met the ear, but he couldn't tell quite what — they'd resolved the matter of womanly virtue, he thought, so that edge in his voice must have been about another matter. And it wasn't all edge, this time; in fact it was light and quaint, almost, just normal curiosity, but he couldn't shake the feeling…

He'd known the man fewer than eight hours. Speculating was pointless.

"Don't know if they were pleased with _me,_ exactly _,_ " Richard said. "But yeah, I'd say they were glad to hear – "

"'Course they were pleased with _you,_ d'you know how often it is anybody new and interesting comes by the Abbey?"

"You reckon?"

"Why else would we be flocking around you like bloody pigeons, Mr Ellis?"

_He thinks I'm new and interesting,_ he thought, as if it mattered at all to be so. It was a vague phrase, wasn't it? He could mean any number of things by it… 

"Was those stories about touring," added Mr Barrow. "You made them all think about some place other than the house… and probably they're wondering if Buckingham Palace is so strict as you say."

And that there was the first and foremost.

"It is."

"Don't you worry, Mr Ellis, I believe you…"

Said like that was the most important thing of all.

It should have bothered him, the way he carried himself, the way he spoke. Richard was occupied enough with his own self-importance, thanks very much, he didn't like coming across it in others, and Mr Barrow had cheek enough for a hundred and then some.

But it didn't bother him.

It was _new and interesting._ When was the last time anybody outside of the Royal Household had given him backtalk?

"You're not so strict here, though," said Richard, before he could stop himself, and he wondered if maybe he was inviting it again —

But far from being offended, Mr Barrow actually laughed. "But this place hasn't burnt to the ground yet, has it? So maybe I'm onto something." He paused, frowned. "Shouldn't joke about that, really, there was a fire here once."

The words were thoughtful more than anything else. Richard raised his eyebrows. "By _a fire_ , you mean – "

"I mean, everybody out of the house, bring out the brigade in the middle of the night, Lady Edith nearly suffocating to death _a fire_."

"Christ."

"Yeah. I, er… she was…" He shut his mouth and huffed, annoyed, and there was no way of knowing if that Richard's own doing or the memory's. "It doesn't matter, er, what matters is everybody got out okay. No lasting bodily harm or anything like that. Was a few years ago, besides."

"Even so," said Richard. "That sort of thing sticks with a man, doesn't it?" 

"Speaking from personal experience, Mr Ellis?"

About fires, no. Richard bought time with a shrug, waited until Mr Barrow caught his eye again, expectant, before answering. "Not exactly."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

So he wasn't the only one pulling at loose threads.

"You like things to have neat and tidy answers, I take it," Richard said, treading as lightly as he could. There was no telling how his feathers might get ruffled, and he'd rather discover from observation than experience — and he was bound to have plenty of chances for the former in the coming days.

Happened everywhere, after all.

"Doesn't everybody?" asked Mr Barrow. Less affronted than Richard had thought he might be, at least.

"To varying degrees, yeah." He paused. "Some people prefer not having any answers at all."

"What about you?"

"Depends on the day," he said wryly, and when Mr Barrow returned his smile he felt, if for a single and fleeting moment, more proud of himself than he had in probably months.

Then it was swiftly replaced by an aching awareness that he was being ridiculous.

He looked away.

"...so, can we expect everybody else to be as friendly as you are?"

"No," he answered plainly, still with a smile, although if he were honest it really wasn't much of a joke, and Mr Barrow laughed again.

"You don't mince words…"

When the last time anybody had ever said that about him was, he couldn't remember.

Usually he got the opposite sentiment.

"I think my mother would disagree with you on that one," Richard told him. "Not known for being pithy."

"No?"

He was being asked to give away so much of himself already.

Part of him thought _he must be_ for that very reason. The last time any man had shown him interest like this —

But it wasn't _interest,_ was it? And add to that it wasn't _like_ anything. It was conversation, plain and simple, and he'd had plenty of that with valets, footmen and butlers lately: he and the entourage were novel, a glimpse at how-the-other-half-lives even within their own class, and among his colleagues he seemed to be the only one who gave a damn enough to have a word with any of the residents, so the responsibility of diplomacy always fell to him. And everybody else asked just as many questions as Mr Barrow, no matter if they tread more carefully as they did, and even if the things they asked were of a different nature. The only difference with Mr Barrow was he was the right sort of man for Richard to be interested _back,_ and he'd had more opportunity to get to know him in a few short hours than he ever did with anybody else. They'd broken bread at the same table. That was what it came down to. 

If they'd met out the back of a bar in Covent Garden and gotten to talking like they were now…

But they hadn't, and he'd not been to a bar in Covent Garden for ages. The day had been long, he was tired, he was overthinking it.

"No," he said.

Mr Barrow nodded. By a stroke of luck, he didn't press, saying, "so, I'll have to be satisfied with just you, then, will I?"

Very suddenly Richard felt like he might choke.

"What makes you say that?"

"If I may, Mr Wilson didn't strike me as…"

_Long day, tired, overthinking it,_ he reminded himself, and — with silent apologies to Mr Barrow — stopped listening and tried to remember what it felt like to have cold water dumped over his head.

Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

But he was not going to be especially optimistic on that score.

"...and you're, what, third senior in the Royal Household?"

"When we're travelling," Richard managed.

Mr Barrow didn't say anything; when Richard looked over, he was raising his eyebrows.

"...what?"

"You'll have to explain," said Mr Barrow, amused.

"What part's unclear?"

"The number of people above you when you're _not_ travelling," he replied, again as though it were a stupid question for him to have asked in the first place. He seemed to like doing that — it'd have been hypocritical for Richard to say anything at all against it, as he was fond of the same, but it did make him feel in over his head some. 

"Er," said Richard. That smirk on his face didn't help matters, of course. "Well, there's Mr Miller."

The trick of this was going to be explaining the circumstances of his employment in a fashion that didn't make _Mr Barrow_ feel stupid.

Because there was very much which he plainly did not understand.

"So you've said."

This was going to be more awkward than it strictly needed to be, wasn't it.

"I was including him," Mr Barrow added, and Richard laughed.

"And then there are five more where Mr Wilson came from," he said.

"Five _butlers._ "

"They're not butlers," said Richard, with what he hoped was patience. What followed was the most attractive eyeroll he'd ever seen in his life. "No, I mean it," he went on, insistent. "Tell me, Mr Barrow, what do you do all day?"

Putting him on the spot perhaps wasn't the best choice, but the words had been spoken and couldn't be taken back. And to say aloud _I do respect your work, I can assure you_ was rather on the nose for the circumstances, so he'd hold back on saying anything of the sort until he had to.

The question earned him a _look_ and an eyeroll to go with it.

The fact that that didn't put him off was probably something to be worried about.


	8. Chapter 8

"You're _joking._ "

Jesus, it always went like this.

Mr Barrow held open the back door for him; he took off his hat and coat and slung the former over his arm.

"You can use one of these if you like," Mr Barrow said, gesturing to the row of hooks on the wall, "but there should be places in the room; if not I'll speak to Mrs Hughes about it in the morning… how do you keep track?"

He acknowledged the offer with a nod, but didn't take him up on it.

He'd keep his belongings to himself, thanks.

"Gets easier after a time," he said slowly. "I'm at a disadvantage, really, most everyone else's been around since they were footmen."

"And you haven't?"

Right, he'd not been there for that part of the conversation…

"Had family ties," said Richard, because that was the best way of putting it to a man he'd met not eight hours ago—how the _hell_ did it get to be past midnight—without sharing more than he cared to. "But no, I didn't start 'til after the war." 

"No need to explain _that…_ "

Something to be grateful for.

Richard watched as he took off his coat and hung it at the wall. 

The man was still in white tie livery.

Of course he'd be.

He had been when they left the house.

But the _reminder…_

"So Miss Lawton wasn't having us on when she said hundreds, then."

Thankful for the distraction, even if it were only an alternate form of the same man, Richard shook his head. "I'd've said something, if so."

"Would you have?" asked Mr Barrow, and Richard shrugged.

"It's a servant's job, isn't it, we're all focused on the reputation of the house and family…"

"Could you do very much, to marr the reputation of your _house and family?"_

Richard always did like the witty ones…

"You'd be surprised," he said, seriously.

At that very moment the backdoor opened with a slam—out of instinct Richard jumped back about a foot away from him, and although Mr Barrow cast him a sideways glance for it the newcomer in the passage seemed not to notice anything at all. 

And then it was as though nothing had happened neither before nor after he'd come through the door. Mr Barrow pulled out his watch again.

"Thank you, Mr Parker," he said, after giving it what looked to be only a cursory glance. 

"Sorry, Mr Barrow."

"Why should you be? You're on time."

It was only then that Andy seemed to realise Richard was even there.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked, far too late for it to mean anything if he had been. (Had he been?)

"You should go up," said Mr Barrow, suddenly sharp. "Just 'cause we've got company doesn't mean we're not working; you'll get a knock up at six same as always." He turned to Richard. "What time are we waking _you_ in the morning?"

"I'll be up," Richard said. 

"Before six?"

"Always am." 

Andy was looking back and forth between them with an uncertain look on his face, brow furrowed in the middle; Richard didn't know why it bothered him.

"Andy, make sure Albert remembers to look in on Mr Ellis in the morning."

"Yes, Mr Barrow."

Mr Barrow raised his eyebrows and tilted his head.

"...goodnight, Mr Barrow."

And that settled the matter.

"So," said Mr Barrow as Andy made a dash for the stairs, turning toward him, "you wake up before six, do you?"

"Quarter til," cheerily. 

"Is that standard?"

Of all the things this man could have found amusing.

"For me," Richard told him. "Any later and I don't get as much time as I'd like in the washroom."

"You'll be happy to know we haven't got dozens of footmen for you to compete with, then." 

"It's mainly other dressers, actually."

" _Actually,_ " said Mr Barrow, a hair beyond amused. "The point's that it won't be an issue." He frowned. "'Til the rest of your lot shows up, at least." 

"You've only got a fraction to concern yourself with."

"But I should be _concerned,_ " he countered. 

Richard turned his hat over in his hands, realised he still had his gloves on, and then got about taking them off. "Er, yeah, probably."

"Well, I appreciate the honesty..."

Mr Barrow didn't sound very much like he appreciated anything, but the smile in his eyes was unmistakeable… his eyes that were, he thought, fixed on his hands, and he fumbled, thinking about it.

_Act your damn age._

"Well, shall we go up, then?" said Mr Barrow. "I've got to lock up, but if you don't think you can make it on your own – "

"Before we do," he said, impulsive. That cheek was going to be the death of him and no mistake. "I wonder if I might ask a favour."

"Go on."

Richard looked away from him, down the passage; he took a deep breath. "I'll guess you haven't got a map of this place lying around," he started, "and it isn't my place to wander about upstairs on my own – "

"Didn't seem to have a problem with that on your way in," interrupted Mr Barrow, eyebrows raised.

Richard blushed.

"Well," he continued, "I've got to lock the doors, if you'd like I can show you the hall while I do it, though mind you you shouldn't be spending any time there," this with a pointed look; Richard quickly nodded, "and I won't take you to the gallery, but we can go up the servants' staircase by the men's corridors and you'll see those… Do they – " He cut himself off, coughed slightly. "Will His Majesty be staying _in_ the men's corridor?"

Richard grinned.

"I know what you're really asking," he said, lightly, and Mr Barrow laughed softly, shook his head, "and I would remind you that's not any of your business, Mr Barrow. But yeah, he will be."

"In any case that's where the dressing room'll be," said Mr Barrow, "so you'd better know your way around it, I s'pose."

That settled the matter, and then they were in the hall, deserted but for them. It was likely his last time in the room—when visiting they often entered through the front door, but they never left by it.

He couldn't actually recall the last time he'd been in the hall at Buckingham Palace.

Ages ago, most likely. Spent most of his time running up staircases and arranging dressing rooms.

"Tell me about the house," Richard said, realising only after the words had left his mouth that they seemed more an order than a request, but though Mr Barrow lifted an eyebrow he obliged him.

With grace and ease, too, until they were in the mens' corridor and Richard had asked a question he couldn't answer.

"You don't know."

"I did, once," defensive. "Back when I was footman I learned everything I could about this place, knew the bloody house history by heart, but… things've happened since then." He bit at his lower lip. "Forgot a lot of stuff and never bothered to remember."

"Tough to think of any of this as mattering when you see what else goes on in the world," Richard returned.

"I don't know what to make of you," said Mr Barrow plainly.

Richard laughed.

"Maybe it's you Their Majesties should be worried about, politically speaking." 

"I'll beg you not to repeat that."

His mouth opened and shut twice before he nodded. "Sorry."

"Some cards ought to be kept close to the chest, if you catch my meaning."

"Well, I know what that's like…"

Mr Barrow was now very steadfastedly not looking at him; Richard swallowed back a sudden sense of vulnerability. "Doesn't take much to get sent to Coventry in the Royal Household, Mr Barrow," he said slowly. It wasn't only his colleagues he was worried about, naturally, but it was there he had the most control. "Better to keep my mouth shut and everybody else smoothed over."

"I know what it's like," Mr Barrow repeated. 

They passed through the baize door only to come to a halt on the landing, where they stared at one another. 

Richard didn't know what to say, and it seemed Mr Barrow didn't either, until— 

"Doesn't mean I always _do,_ keep my mouth shut that is, but you don't need to explain it to me, is all."

"Thanks."

"Yeah." He looked down over the banister, breaking their eye contact. It was more of a relief than he'd have guessed. "Er, what've I got to look forward to this week, then?"

That was the question, wasn't it. "You'll be meeting your Waterloo," he said slowly. "No doubt about that."

"Well, people don't say that about just anything, do they."

"Yeah."

"Er." As he lifted his head Richard realised he couldn't bear to be seen again, and before their eyes could meet again he looked up, toward the attics. "...I've got to go down again, check the cellar and such, but I hope this was… helpful."

"It was, thanks."

Mr Barrow nodded. "You get on, then," he said, and then they'd parted before Richard had time to think about it.

He made it about halfway up the next flight of stairs before —

"Mr Ellis?"

Setting his hand upon the banister, Richard turned back and leaned over to face him; Mr Barrow was a flight below with a smirk across his face.

"Are you the French, or are we?"

It took him a moment, but once he realised, Richard laughed: the sound simply came up from his chest, catching him unawares, and down below the smirk _almost_ flashed to a genuine smile.

Almost.

"You'll have to find out," he replied, his heart suddenly beating loud and fast in his chest. He was beginning to like that look on his face more than was good for him, and the sooner he got over it the better, but there was the morning, for that. He'd have a better hold on himself after a night's sleep, get his head back on straight.

And just because he hadn't said it the first time didn't mean he couldn't now… 

"Goodnight, Mr Barrow."

"Goodnight, Mr Ellis."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally when i started this fic i was like i'm going to write Descriptions and Narrative Prose and Practice These Elements Of Writing but no, it's real dialogue only hours hit like if you up
> 
> hope everyone is well! <3 i've been really bad at replying to comments & replies both here _and_ on tumblr (had a lot going on in my life lately :-/) but i do appreciate them (and kudos!!!) so much, so thank you all so much for reading and reacting!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are rapidly approaching the point where this fic becomes three absolutely messy word docs with thousands of unorganized words in them so updates are probably going to take.... even longer...... than they have been........ rip

He'd only just gotten used to sleeping at some place else, and now here he was at another house in another part of the county to do it all over again. At Downton Abbey the room was small; the window had no view; there was a draft through the door… but at Raby Castle the servants quarters had been _underground,_ and Scampston Hall had reminded him of barracks. It was a marked improvement over those two if nothing else.

One of these days he was bound to end up booking a damn hotel room like the rest of them often did. He was entitled to it, after all, so long as the work got done, and there was a point where his stubbornness to accept what had been given to him was less about being brought up polite and more about proving things to nobody but himself. A point he'd likely long passed. What did Mr Wilson care if he got a bad night's sleep in the attic of a declining country house? He didn't; there was his answer. So long as his hair was coiffed and his eyes weren't bloodshot by the time he showed his face anywhere, Richard could sleep wherever he liked. 

It wasn't worth the cut out of his wages for _wherever he liked_ to be off the premises, though, not just yet.

After turning down the bed and laying out his clothing for the coming day he sat at the little chair by the window and looked out onto the rest of the building for no reason at all but that he could. There was a greenhouse up here, by the look of things, but there was also shingling that needed to be replaced and the usual wear and tear — not that that was any concern of his. It was also no concern of his _why_ the Granthams had not renovated their roof, but that didn't stop him from wondering.

The answer was clear, of course.

It all came down to that, didn't it? Downstairs they'd all been so shocked at the idea of several hundred servants, but houses like these weren't meant to run on a team of fewer than twenty. Whoever had hired the builders for this place had lived off the backs of several dozen men and women toiling around and beneath him — ideally never seen, and adamantly never heard.

Those days were over.

For most of the world, if not for the Royal Household. Even if Their Majesties sent half of them packing they'd still have plenty of domestics left in the residences.

Richard trailed his hand along the windowsill; no dust clung to his fingertips.

He didn't know how they did it here with so few of them.

_How does it work, with two valets,_ Mr Barrow had asked.

_How does it work with one?_ he'd wanted to reply.

And yet average blokes like them made it through the day without anybody else to steam their trousers or brush their jackets or fasten their buttons or to do up their bowties and straighten their lapels, they did it all on their own and always had. Richard hadn't had to change for dinner in years, but he could do it for somebody else dead on his feet and in the dark.

...he'd wanted to so badly it had scared him. Made him feel foolish. That was just like him, losing his head over a man he'd just met and all because he'd dared to treat him like an ordinary bloke of his own age and station. Always seeing things that weren't there, always latching on to whoever paid him any mind at all… But Mr Barrow had been paying him mind. Looking at him during supper, noticing when he spoke and when he didn't, keeping track of his —

Because he had a guest in his household, and he was a butler. He made his living in supervising a dining table and looking after houseguests; if he'd bothered, Richard would have seen him treat Lawton in the same fashion. And if he hadn't seen that, it would have been because she fell more under the charge of the housekeeper, not because Richard made for a novel object in his eyes, not because he saw him as something worth taking a second look at.

Richard had probably made it to taking his hundredth look by the time he was standing on show in front of the bellboard.

He wondered how old he was… he might have asked when he had the chance, seeing as he was unlikely now to have another. He'd be working all the livelong day tomorrow and well into the night, too; there wasn't to be any time again for sunset walks along the grounds of the Abbey. 

All he'd seen of Raby was the courtyard.

Without standing from his chair Richard unbuttoned his braces at his trousers (and as always he couldn't get Gene's voice out of his head, poking fun for caring to properly undress himself, one of those things that shouldn't have still bothered him but damn well did), took some of the pressure off of his shoulders and let himself slouch, unobserved and easy. There was nobody to tell him off for his posture, nor for his accent or his hands or his eyes or whatever else. If anything, the people downstairs here liked him more for those things: ears had pricked up the moment he'd first opened his mouth, as they did tend to in this part of the country, but ordinarily that earned him accusations — never to his face but always easy to overhear — of putting on airs, not invitations on walks.

He'd liked that walk. Liked feeling as though he were a part of something, when he had, and liked falling in step beside another man, maintaining a pace. Liked seeing him smile, liked hearing him laugh, liked catching him by surprise, and… 

There was a dangerous thing to think about. 

Men could do terrible things when they were surprised.

It was another several minutes before Richard got a hold of himself and put on his nightclothes (pyjamas were not a habit of his, but if they even locked at all the doors in these places never did so as well as he'd have liked and his dressing gown was on the back of his door in Buckingham Palace), and several more before he crawled into bed and laid his head upon the pillow.

Given the day he'd had he should have promptly fallen asleep.

Naturally, he found himself tossing and turning instead.

He thought the Lord's Prayer three times over before deciding that if he was going to think in those terms he may as well actually pray over something.

Having no desire to do so, he counted backward from one hundred, instead, before naming all of the hairdressers he could think of in Mayfair, followed by the tailors, the drapers, the milliners, and the dressmakers, and then he wondered why he knew of so many women's specialty artisans, because those were all the names and establishments coming to mind. 

Probably because they most all had something else in common.

He never had trouble sleeping like this.

Seconds passed. Minutes.

Eventually his hands started to wander, dancing across the top of the duvet, restless as ever. _In bed_ was the only place he ever let himself fidget for longer than a half-second. He'd seen a piano in the servants' hall, hadn't he? Maybe something would come of that, if he came up with the courage to ask. Who among them played, he wondered… It would be hard to guess; the usual signs were a straight back and deft fingers, and you couldn't get very far in service without either.

_Deft fingers_.

Mr Barrow hadn't made much use of his left hand, had he.

Richard rolled over and put his face in the pillow.

_Stop thinking about him,_ he pleaded with himself, _stop thinking about him, stop thinking about him, stop thinking about him…_

But he couldn't.

He'd have to, but he couldn't.

He thought the alphabet, thought it backwards, thought it in French, recalled the names of every prominent man of the current House of Windsor and then every woman, and then he tried to do the same with all of the Crawleys and all of the Barnards and every other family whose household he'd spent time in over the last ten odd weeks.

At night the line separating the reasonable and unreasonable parts of him waned and waned until it was so thin it was as if it had never been there at all.

In hindsight, it had been foolish to think this could have possibly gone any other way.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy kinktober here's day 2

He woke up touching himself.

_What in God's name is_ wrong _with you,_ he thought, yanking his hand out of his pyjama drawers and blinking his eyes open. The sun was rising bright in his face.

_No view,_ he'd thought the day before — but the window faced true east. When he took his watch from the bedside table, he found it wasn't yet five in the morning. 

He pulled the blankets back up over himself and closed his eyes, then he pushed them away and opened them. He could have closed the curtains. Instead, he undressed, tossing the shirt and shorts toward the chair below the window; they both missed and fell to the floor. He got back under the covers. 

No matter how much that summer dawn made him feel at home…

He closed his eyes again, turned his head toward the pillow, used what little space he had to massage his shins and calves together, seeking _something._

_Maybe if you hadn't lost your head within hours of making landfall…_

He couldn't remember the dream, besides, but that was probably for the best, given he had something of an idea leftover.

An idea he was suddenly very tempted to revisit.

_Stop thinking about him,_ he willed, cringing as he recalled how he'd spent the minutes before he'd fallen asleep—unprofessionally, ultimately, at best. And now if he didn't get a hold of himself he was bound to pass his morning the same way. 

It had been half four, when he'd checked… 

He had an hour, give or take.

He had an hour and a brain, so he did his best to put _Thomas Barrow_ out of his mind and turned his face into the pillow, eyes shut, breathing slow as he could… and if his hands wandered again then that would be a problem to solve at a later time.

He had a bad habit of pushing problems to solve _at a later time,_ where things like this were concerned.

Richard fell back asleep until the floor shook and the walls rattled. There was a pounding on the door; a boy shouted: "six o'clock!"

They rose later than he was used to, here… Christ, he'd forgotten; he should have been up and moving already.

He hauled himself out of bed.

In the washroom, both faucets ran cold.

*

Later he found Lawton in the sewing room at a quarter after seven.

"Is that wise?" he asked, with a nod toward her mug, which was placed on the work table in a manner that struck him as rather precarious. She did not dignify this remark with a response beyond a lift of her head and a sniff; he leaned against the doorframe and nursed the cup of coffee that Daisy had been kind enough to offer him.

(He suspected she had not come to her own through similar means, but that was none of his business.)

"You disappeared yesterday evening," Richard tried.

"I went exploring," she said curtly.

Of course she had.

"I'll pretend I don't know what you mean by that," he said lightly, and then he crossed the room and pulled up a chair. "What're you working on?"

She finally looked up at him, exasperated; with one hand she set the mug — on second glance it was full of coffee — nearer to him; with the other she held up a corner of the garment.

Some sort of dress slip.

How perfectly boring.

"Miss Aplin suggested I have a look at it," she said. "It's been _giving her trouble_."

He peered at it.

"You have an entre-deux there?"

"Yes."

"Curved needle?"

"Yes."

"What sort of thread?"

"Sixty-weight silk."

"May be the fabric, then."

"Why do you think I need that explained to me, Mr Ellis?" she said, flat and irritated as anything, and then she once again picked up her needle and returned to her stitching.

He shrugged and sipped at his drink — it was far nicer than he was used to, had she given him the house roast? — but said nothing more, opting to watch, instead. She wanted him to leave her be, that much was obvious, but he wasn't inclined to get in the way of anybody else and besides that had work he could do in the sewing room if he so pleased. The trunk had been put in the room the day before.

But if nobody was breathing down his neck, he might as well go ahead and finish his coffee before taking up the mending and finishing. And breakfast was at eight, if he was remembering right. Maybe it wasn't worth starting anything new if he'd have to stop so soon as that.

"Are you having fun making friends?" she said, too sweetly for his liking, her eyes fixed on her work. 

"They're nice folk," he said, noncommittal.

She raised her eyebrows but still didn't look at him. "You think everyone is _nice folk._ "

"Until proven otherwise, yeah."

"Whatever you say," Lawton replied. And then: "if you're going to make eyes, Mr Ellis, you might do so more discreetly."

If he was going to take anybody's advice where discretion was concerned, it probably would be hers…

But he wasn't.

"I can't think what you must mean by that," Richard said, drumming his fingertips on the tabletop. She wouldn't have noticed a thing if she'd not been looking for it; surely they both knew that.

It was the tapping that got her to finally look at him: she was almost smiling. "Can't you?"

"No."

"And after not even a day in the house," she continued. "Is novelty all it takes for you now? Because I could have sworn you had taste in men beyond – "

"That door there is wide open," he interrupted, pointing at it. 

She had the good sense to look regretful, at least, but it didn't last long. "You could close it," she muttered, back to stitching once more.

"I could also speak only in French," he returned, "but that implies I want to speak at all, doesn't it?"

"Remind me why you came in here, Mr Ellis?"

Having resolved not to do any work until after breakfast—there were some things you could only get away with at other houses, and he saw no reason not to take advantage—Richard opted to give her space by leaning against the wall, diagonal from her place at the table.

He'd come in to talk. 

"Right," he said, because the question needed no response, "what d'you make of him?"

"The butler?"

"Yeah."

"Young."

"People say that about us," Richard countered.

"I'm older than you are, Mr Ellis."

Which was the point, wasn't it?

But he heard the unspoken— _and more experienced, and better situated, et cetera et cetera_. At least she didn't say it out loud anymore.

She'd come in to the Household after he had, besides.

She didn't have the right. 

Miss Lawton sighed. "If you're not going to work, could you at least allow me some peace and quiet?"

"No," he said cheerfully, but—

"Oh, I didn't realise…"

He turned. Miss Baxter stood in the doorway, a dress over her arm.

"Good morning," she said kindly. 

"Good morning," they returned. He cast her a smile; Lawton did not acknowledge her at all but for the spoken greeting.

And it was only then that she entered.

People behaved so oddly when they were around — for all that talk of _it's our house_ he was always subject to, resident staff never liked to feel as though they were intruding upon the Royal Household. 

"You can sew in the servants' hall, if you like," Miss Baxter went on, undeterred… or doing her best to seem like it. "Most of us do."

"A bit of a walk, isn't it?" he asked.

"We don't spend much time in the laundry wing, really… you'll only have nannies and housemaids for company if you stay here." She smiled again. He appreciated the effort. "Not that I mind them… I just came in for some pins."

He stepped out of her way and watched her as she went to the cupboards, where she opened a drawer and removed a carton of them.

Lawton watched, too.

_It's the sewing room,_ he wanted to tell her. _If anything catches your eye here you've got worse taste than I thought._

Task thus accomplished, Miss Baxter swept out of the room as neatly as she'd entered, saying "good day" before disappearing into the corridor.

As soon as she'd left Lawton sighed. "Well, she's nicer than Mrs Bates," she said under her breath—in a way that he'd been meant to hear it, he was sure. 

"You've been here half a day and you're already making enemies?" Richard asked, mock incredulous.

"They're easier to make than friends."

For some people, maybe.

Sometimes he wished he was one of them, given all the ill that could come of being _friendly_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can't use a half loop stitch on china silk, it'll pucker

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr as [@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com)!


End file.
